This is a short poem on the cult of appearances and looks.


My ebony hues and sun kissed skin,
Their square jaws and languid smiles
My touch of unconventional presence
Their alabaster glow
Those pair of green eyes and cold stares
A mark of wordly snare

They compliment my sharp features
and even then dangle strings of vulnerability all around me.
I look good,they say
Then a whimper and sigh pass,
unquestionably their statement of superiority.

They do not mutter a word
yet their silent nags disapprove
They feel beauty lies at their feet,
and I have nothing to prove.

I feel laws of attraction lunging at my throat,
and the mirror holds fort
as they lecture on my inner glow.

I smell of charcoal,
a mug of tar
for them even a shade of twilight is
at war with their flush of sunshine.

Surely, men need no validation
But I would not fall for that clap trap.
The cult of appearance is not what I mean to address here.

Do I walk with imbalance,
have my hair all scattered,
do I mumble rather than speak
or nervously confront your cardinal egos?
Then why do I have to measure up to your lofty peaks and penchants
to hold just pendants of good looks and empty din?

Contours of my whims and fancies of perfection have been stilled.
Beauty and impressions are not what I address here
But in how I make a difference,
and charm my creative specks to come to fruition.

You measure my inches
Try to polish my loose ends.
If only you could have honed my craft and not belittled my gift..

I have changed my location now after all that spectacle,
away from crowds
and residential facilities sponsored by structures of appearance alone.

I wish to stay here,
with clouds under my eyes
and ebony hues stretching my silver linings,
linings that produce a hum and melody,
the ultimate refuge of poetry.


NOTE : This poem too graces my poetry collection WHISTLING CHIMES on Wattpad and was originally published in 2015.